“Pleased to meet you.”
“Hello.” The tension in the room was strong. Mr. Hernandez had evidently not forgotten Adrian’s early meeting with his son, and had clearly not forgiven it either. Toby stood between them watching.
Adrian felt his fear begin to rise. Not the complete mind numbing panic, but a steady increase in his heartbeat, a quickening of breath. He shoulders tightened and he began to sweat. With a dry mouth he said softly. “This is for you, Toby. Happy birthday.” His eyes never left Juan, standing by the dining room table.
“What is it?” Toby took the package from Adrian’s limp hand. He smiled and shook it next to his ear, the standard reaction to a gift that was clearly a book. “Is it...chocolates?” He shook it again as if listening for a rattle. “No. A game? Maybe the new Tomb Raider I didn’t get from my parents?” He looked at them slyly, getting in to his act.
“How about...a new CD player? Or maybe...” he stretched out the word comically. “A new bicycle!” His voice became a TV announcer. “Yes; that’s right, Bill! A new bicycle. The Cyclone Twin Two Thousand, with banana seat and monkey bars! Retail value nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars! Back to you, Bill.”
“Will you cut it out?” Adrian said at the same moment Juan said, “Knock it off, you clown.” Everyone slopped for a moment and stared at each other, and burst out laughing. The tension drained from the room like air hissing from a tire. Juan looked at Adrian and acknowledged him with a slight nod. Adrian relaxed, but stayed near the door as his heart settled down.
“Just open it, will you?” he asked.
“Oh-kay.” Toby bounced happily across the room to his father and leaned against his shoulder, looking up with a Groucho Marx lift of the eyebrows. “Maybe it’s that collection of Victoria’s Secret catalogs we’ve both been after?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and started to tear the paper.
“Hey! Garfield!” He stopped opening the package and read the comics. His father gave him a shove.
“Fine, fine. Nice paper,” he said to Adrian. “Looks just like today’s comics.” He tore Doonesbury, and Cathy sailed over his head and he stopped kidding instantly, staring at his book.
“What is it?” asked Juan. Mrs. Hernandez crowded closer to look over their shoulders.
Toby held an old looking hard bound book as if he was cradling a baby. “Chilton’s Manual,” he read aloud. “For a nineteen-sixty Studebaker Lark!” He gaped at Adrian open mouthed. “No fuckin’ way, man!”
“Toby!” gasped his mother.
“Watch your mouth, son,” echoed his father, but with more understanding. His hand was settled comfortably on the boy’s shoulders. Adrian could feel the love Juan felt for his son vibrating down that arm as if it was an electric wire.
“Sorry.” Toby said automatically. His eyes never left the book. “Does this mean—?”
“Yes.” Adrian nodded.
“Oh, cool.”
Juan, looking over Toby’s shoulder, watched Adrian for a moment, appraising him. “Would you like a piece of cake? Or a cup of coffee?”
Then Adrian relaxed.
She called on April 9th, when the wind howled outside Adrian’s window as if it wanted to get in. Bare trees rocked like seaweed in a wild surf and drifts of freezing snow piled in any available corner. The office was an oasis of warmth.
“Call for you. Adrian,” said Ruth, on the office line.
“Who is it?”
“Maggie Powers.”
“I’m not in.”
Adrian glanced at his clock: 9:15, and returned to work. He made a red line on a complicated blueprint and tugged at an oversized black leather bound manual, lost himself for the rest of the day in an intricate set of calculations.
She called again, on April 15th when white fleecy clouds drifted laconically through a baby blue sky and taxes were due.
“Adrian—”
“Who is it?”
“Maggie Powers.”
“Not in.”
And May 1st, disturbing a conversation about manufacturing schedules.
“Gordon,” pleaded Adrian. “I have to have it by the 3rd.”
“That’s not possible. I’m short a man since Manuel quit. I can’t just change schedules to suit you.”
Adrian thought, “Why not?” when the phone rang.
“Call for you,” Ruth said.
“Who is it?” Gordon looked out the window, bored.
“Maggie—”
“I’m not in.”
Turning back, he added “The 3rd, Gordon.”
On May 12th, a Friday, when the trees just hinted at the idea that –maybe –spring might come around, the phone rang. Adrian looked at the calendar—wrong day, and the clock; 4:37— too late, and picked up the phone. He tucked it under his chin and plucked at a technical memo about a defective relay.
“Hello, this is Adrian.”
“And this is Maggie,” said a very cheerful voice.
Crap. “I...uh, um. Hello.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you.” she said casually, as if he hadn’t been avoiding her for a month. Actually, pretending that she didn’t notice, and daring him to pretend that he didn’t notice somehow made them conspirators which Adrian found annoying.
“I’ve been—” he looked for words.
“Out,” Maggie supplied helpfully. “Since April.”
“No, I...Look, Ms. Powers—”
“Call me Maggie.”
“Okay, uh, Maggie.” Adrian breathed deeply, determined to get away. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you like baseball?” she asked, breaking his concentration. He had the sense he’d been lost from the beginning.
“Baseball?”
“The Rockies. I have tickets for tonight’s game. Seven-o-Five. I could pick you up at six and we’d get there in plenty of time.”
“I can’t go to a baseball game with you.”
“Why not? It’s America’s pastime.”
“Because it’s...” Adrian stammered. “Because I’m—” He inhaled and said formally, “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t go.”
“It’ll make up for you avoiding me for a month,” Maggie said. Adrian, guilty as charged, held out for 6:30.
Coors field, built new for the fledgling Denver baseball team in 1996, was based on the old ball parks of the nineteen-twenties. It was red brick and green painted girders and industrial gray painted concrete floors with yellow and blue lines leading somewhere. The corridors were lined with popcorn vendors and hot dog stands and tee shirt concessions and beer sellers for those who couldn’t wait for the beer guys working the stands.
Maggie picked him up at the front door of the office where he’d been waiting alone, rehearsing his lines with mounting annoyance at himself. How did she do this? he wondered.
A fire-engine-red sports car swerved into the parking lot from Platte River Drive and Adrian walked over, crawled into the low black leather interior and said brusquely, “This is just one evening, right? It doesn’t mean anything.”
Maggie, dressed in designer jeans and a light blue jacket that both clashed with and complemented her long hair, said, “Just one evening.” She held up two fingers and grinned. “Promise.”
She drove too fast and talked nonstop all the way to downtown. Adrian noticed that she didn’t run red lights, but did push the meaning of yellow to the limit. In an attempt at humor, Adrian said, “Red means stop, green means go and yellow—”
“Means go faster,” she finished for him. “That’s an old one.” She smiled when she said it.
At Auraria Parkway, around a former brewery called the Tivoli, they passed a group of old brick buildings that had been converted into lofts, with rusted balconies and ancient advertising signs on the faded brick. They drove up Larimer street into a warehouse area that didn’t look like it belonged and Adrian saw the stadium.
“That’s it.” Maggie said. She parked the little car in a lot only a block away, fed a credit card into a machin
e and got a parking pass. They walked with a crowd to the gates, passing vendors selling peanuts, programs, baseball caps, burritos and tickets. Several times she walked ahead of Adrian, stopped and waited with no sign of impatience at his slow gait.
In line at the entrance she said, “you don’t have a crutch anymore.”
“For a month now.” He held up his right arm. “They took the cast off, too.”
“But you still walk with a limp,” Maggie said. It didn’t sound critical, merely conversation. “The scar is interesting. Sort of piratical.”
“The doctor says I need more exercise.”
“Don’t we all,” Maggie said as they passed the ticket taker.
The seats were good ones and probably belonged to her company. They were on the first base line, facing east, only ten rows back from the home plate. The field was emerald green, the grass cut in alternating diagonal stripes. The infield was light brown under the fierce lights and the sky made a dark blue cover over everything,
“Would you like a hot dog?”
“All right.”
They waited for a vendor to work his way over, ordered two and Maggie said, “Do you know about the Zen hot dog?”
“No.”
“It’s one with everything.”
Adrian groaned. Still, reluctant as he was to admit it, he was enjoying himself. The seats were hard plastic and too close. The crowd was sparse but noisy. The organ blared in the thin air, playing songs that everyone knew. They stood for the National Anthem, placing hands over hearts and Maggie sang along, loudly and well. Adrian mumbled along with everyone else.
The Rockies played the Mariners in a game that was both boring and interesting. The game seemed timeless, as if it could be 1890 or the future, or both at once. They ordered beer and drank from plastic cups, slurping the foam.
“You’ re so serious,” said Maggie. Her attention was divided between Adrian and the pitcher, “Are you always like this?”
“Like what? I don’t think I’m serious.”
Maggie smiled widely, clapping when the batter snapped a hit down the first baseline. The crack of the bat was like an explosion in the stillness of the evening. She turned back.
“You’re the single most serious person I’ve ever met.”
“Maybe when you get to know me,” Adrian said defensively.
“Maybe,” Maggie agreed.
Around nine the clouds came in and a very fine mist started.
“I’m getting cold,” Maggie said.
“Me, too.” Belatedly he wondered if Maggie’s comment had been a suggestion that he put an arm around her and wondered all through the sixth inning whether he should have. He had no idea what to do.
The mist turned to a sudden downpour and they scurried up to the shelter of an overhanging balcony, saving Adrian from further soul-searching. After an hour Maggie said, “It doesn’t look like it’s gonna stop. Do you want to leave?”
Freezing, Adrian quickly agreed.
They wandered back through the aisles to the entrance and watched the heavy rain for a while. The silence felt awkward and to fill it Maggie said, “It often rains like this in Denver.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“So you think it’ll stop soon?”
“No. Do you want to make a run for the car?”
“I don’t run too well any more. I’m afraid we’ll get wet.”
Maggie grinned. “Let’s walk slowly.” She took his arm in hers and tugged him into the rain. It struck like icy needles, drenching them in seconds. Maggie fared slightly better in her blue windbreaker, but soon her hair was plastered to her face. The walk to the car look less than two minutes, and they huddled in the small car shivering.
“Turn on the heat!” Adrian said through chattering teeth.
“It’s on, it’s on.” Even the cool air felt warm.
“I had a good time,” Adrian admitted, surprising himself. He’d forgotten the office ban against seeing her, forgotten that he didn’t go on dates, forgotten he was usually uncomfortable around women.
“Did you?” Maggie asked. The car was running but she still hadn’t pulled out of the space.
“Yes.”
“So you want to do it again?” She was watching him closely and it seemed as if there was a smile hidden.
Did he want to? Adrian wondered. Yes, he did. Despite her ambush tactics and being nearly frozen, he truly enjoyed the evening.
“Yes,” he said and she smiled wickedly.
She pushed the gearshift lever into reverse and the car jumped out of the parking lot. “You have to choose the next place.”
19 – Got to Have a Rigid Tool Calendar
The garage had taken on a homey sort of nineteen-forties feel. The single dull bulb had been replaced by a string of hundred watts, making the space seem less cave, more refuge. The battered old workbench against the back wall was now covered with tools, a bolted on vice and a cheap grinder/sander bought at Tool-King.
A calendar from the Rigid Tool company of Cleveland, Ohio featured a model in a bikini caressing an extremely large pipe bender in an immaculate kitchen with a turkey on the table behind her. Adrian’s Dad had always had one of these calendars on the wall of his shop and Adrian felt it was his responsibility to continue the tradition. He’d bought it on EBay—November, 1986.
July’s model wore a red-white-and blue swimsuit next to a ladder and held a torque wrench that could dismantle a tank. Toby heartily approved.
Front fenders hung like tan slabs of beef against the north wall. Tires, radiator, front grille, hood, battery assembly and bumpers were scattered around wherever, seldom out of the way.
A small electric heater provided a warm, almost tropical heat, despite the antics of the weather outdoors, and a small battered radio played California Dreaming and other oldies.
“This sucks.” Toby, dressed as always in knee-length shorts, was bent over the engine compartment, arms covered with grease. He struggled with a ratchet wrench for a moment and stood up, holding a small mechanical assembly in one hand. He held it out for inspection.
“See? This carburetor sucks.”
“That’s why we’re removing it.”
“Yeah, but nothing on this car works.” He carried the part to the work bench and set it down more firmly than necessary. “Nothing.”
“Careful with that!” Adrian joined him at the table. “If that breaks we’re never gonna get another one. Carburetors for Studebakers don’t—”
“Grow on trees. Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s just that...” Toby stopped and looked moody. He swept an arm around, indicating the stuff everywhere. “I thought we’d be done by now.”
“You did,” Adrian said softly. He pushed a Whitney’s parts catalog out of the way and jumped up onto the bench, stretching the blue work coveralls tight against his legs.
“Yeah. But...”
“But what?”
“But...” The teenager looked troubled, unsure how to continue. Adrian had felt the tension mounting for the last couple weeks and had been waiting for this moment. He remembered when he’d had it with his own father.
“But, like, all we’re doing is taking things off!” The dam burst, the emotional water flooded. “Like, ‘Toby, take off that fender.’ ‘Toby, take off that grille.’ Toby, do this, do that. And I do it.” He looked for confirmation and Adrian nodded. “But we’re not getting anywhere.”
“What did you expect?”
“I thought we’d, you know, I thought—”
“You thought we’d just jump the battery, put in some gas and drive off into the sunset. Is that it?”
“No,” Toby objected strongly, but it was true and they both knew it. Impetuous youth, thought Adrian from his thirty-four years.
“We’re never gonna be done.”
“Yes, we are.”
“How?” Toby’s arm gestured. “We’re just making it worse.” His voice was bitter with frustration.
Adrian had been tw
elve when he’d had this conversation. His father had been calm, explaining what was so foreign to his young son, that patience was a virtue and progress carne from small steps, not giant leaps.
“Toby, we could put this thing together and be finished in...oh,” Adrian considered the piles of stuff all around and decided to exaggerate for effect. “About a week. We could drive all over the place.”
“Cool!” Toby, quick to anger, went as swiftly to smiles. “Then let’s do that! Wow, we could? Really?”
“Yes, but we’re not going to.” His father’s voice came echoing across the years. “We’re going to do this right.”
“But,” Toby in the present, spoke Adrian’s lines from the past. “Shi...I mean; crap. I just didn’t think it would take this long.”
“Haven’t you been having fun?”
“Yeah, I have. It’s just that I’d like to be done, too.”
This was the delicate moment. “Do you want to quit?” Adrian’s stomach twisted, dreading the answer. With a sudden insight he realized how much he enjoyed Toby’s company, how much he’d miss it if this went wrong.
He’d always worked alone. At home, at the office, everywhere. Working on this battered old car with the teenage boy from across the street had been the most fun he’d had in years. Please, he thought, don’t quit on me. Toby was silent for a very long time. His brown eyes, never still, danced around the room somberly, looking at a fender, the tires. He paused at the lurking mass of the car, jacked up and wounded, his face expressionless. Adrian could almost hear the thoughts whirling.
Finally, when the silence grew so still that the heater crackled loudly, clicking with its expansion, Toby said with a frown, “No.”
Adrian closed his eyes in relief. He nodded, feeling a disaster narrowly avoided. He considered that this moment had probably come and gone many times before. For fear of losing he’d never let anyone get close.
“But I want a better radio station.” Toby said.
And I’m going to call Maggie, Adrian decided.
Adrian chose, after consideration usually reserved for engineering, to take Maggie to the Mile High Flea Market. It was ideal, he decided as he got dressed on a Saturday morning. Good weather, an interesting choice and he knew where it was. And it had no significance at all. Perfect.
Lone Rock Page 13
